Senses
by DragonChild85
Summary: A collection of Wincest drabbles, each 500 words.
1. Chapter 1

_*waves* Hullo! Okay, some of you may remember this little snippet from my drabble collection "Spooks And Shotguns". Well, it's been tempting me to expand, and I finally gave in. I'm gonna set up a collection of Wincest drabbles, all around 500 words, one for each sense. This one, obviously, is sound. _

_I'm tossing the idea of doing 10 total, 5 for Sam, 5 for Dean. I don't know...let me know what you think. Leave it at 5 and alternate randomly, or do 10 and 5 from each boy? _

_Anyway, obviously, OBVIOUSLY this is WINCEST...this is the ONLY warning I'm gonna put on this collection, okay? Just bear through this. *nods*

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_**_WINCEST WARNING WINCEST WARNING

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Dean knows every sound Sam makes. Born of fear, anger, frustration, amusement, joy, sorrow…it doesn't matter. He knows every last one. He started building his library of Sammy-Sounds the first day he saw the small bundle, the startled inhale from the baby as soon as hazel eyes met green.

He became better than Mary at telling what cries meant Sam was wet, or hungry, or cold, or just plain unhappy.

Some sounds he hates. The hiss of breath between clenched teeth as a needle bites deep, or the harsh pant of pain. The gagging retching noise is one that twists his stomach, not just from the event, but the fact that his Sammy is hurting, and there's nothing to make it better. The low, confused groan of consciousness in the hospital, that's another one that adds years of sorrow to the burden on Dean's shoulders. The strangled cries for a lost, dead lover, those are like a dagger to the heart. Those are the sounds that he wishes he never heard; a pile of dark and painful spots that he tries to bury in the recesses of his mind, away from ever hearing again.

Some sounds he goes out of his way to goad. The huff of annoyance at finding his entire list of files on the computer renamed randomly, the smothered laugh as Dean intentionally fumbles a shot at the dartboard, the breathy snort as Sam shakes his head in amusement. The exasperated name as Dean pokes and prods. Those are good sounds, ones that Dean collects like tiny jewels, to run through his fingers as consolation during stretches where Sam doesn't add to them.

Some sounds, he adores. Hoards them like gold, and releases them only in the dark, quiet confines of his mind. They're sounds that he used to escape the torture on the racks, ones he made damned sure no demon ever pried out of him. They're special, and he treasures each and every last one of them.

The soft inhale of worship as Dean mouths a hipbone, Sam's eyes catching stars as he kicks his head back, fingers clenching red and gold and orange leaves under the cover of October skies.

The groan of pleasure as Dean rocks against him, nipping bites along shoulders and soothing them just as quickly with a tongue.

The laugh that's only heard as Dean rubs stubbled-cheeks against sensitive sides, almost a child's squeal of pleasurable-torture, lanky body twisting as the laugh rises.

The impatient sound, not a whine, not a keen, just a sound of demand, of impatience, as Dean teases, drags out the inevitable.

The hoarse cry of his brother's name, as Dean slides him over the edge, Sam shuddering as eyes flutter closed.

The quiet, sleepy murmur of questioning contentment against Dean's back in the dark, whenever Dean moves too far. And the matching breath of pleasure and relaxation as Dean moves back into the warm circle of his brother's arms.

He knows every sound Sam makes.

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_Drop me a line, kay? ^_^_


	2. Chapter 2

Some nights, as Sam sleeps soundlessly under the weight of Dean's arm, Dean wonders if anyone else ever learned the scents that surround the little brother he loves, or if he was the only one to carry that secret knowledge.

Did Jess ever learn about that spot, right at the small of Sam's back, that smells of soap and sweat and dirt and little boy? The scent he knew for the longest time as Sam, a little boy streaking out of the bathroom, hair wet and towel dwarfing him, lives on in that small hollow.

Or the fact that, no matter how many times Sam scrubs himself, the back of his knees always, always smells of gun oil and smoke, a dark, somber scent, a secret lingering of their careers. If Jess knew, did she ever wonder at the scents clinging to dark wisps of hair?

Even more broad than that though, is the musk and soap and sweat and coffee scent that makes up his brother, makes up the scent of _home_ more than any candle he's ever had shoved under his nose. Cassie used to light chocolate chip cookie candles, said they reminded her of home, and he'd always be a little disconcerted, because home to him wasn't cookies, or his mom's soap, or even Dad's leather jacket; it was always a dark little boy, that started with baby powder, graduated to Play-Doh and crayons, and slowly morphed into the elusive scent of books and libraries with a touch of the Impala, changing as the boy matured, and could he really be blamed for stealing the pillowcases the night Sam left, hoarding them to clutch on the bad nights?

Sam makes a noise in his sleep, pulling awake, and Dean shifts, burrows his nose in the silky locks, inhales deeply and lets the scent of home wash over him, damning him as he drowns, and Sam relaxes against him, angling for a kiss. Dean obliges, it's not like Sam even has that horrible of morning breath, just a concentrated form of the scent that teases him throughout the day after Sam scrubs his teeth, moving against the warm, wet, chapped lips of his brother, sliding his tongue against the tongue he's seen peeking between white teeth. It's a lazy, reassuring kiss, and Sam breaks off, yawns as he slides deeper into the sleep-warmed sheets, and Dean burrows down against him, letting Sam's arms tug him closer.

Presses his nose to the hollow of Sam's throat, where the scent of _HOME_ is the strongest, where soap and shampoo and cologne can't mask the musky, warm scent, the scent that vanished when Sam died, the scent that has always reassured after nightmares, comforted after the stench of hospitals, that after twenty some years, has never really faded, never changed, aside from the musk as Sam stepped from boyhood to adult.

It's the scent of home, and he's too happy to let it wash over him, and carry him into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Every time Sam's name leaves Dean's tongue, it leaves behind a taste, and some, Dean adores. Can't say enough, chants them like a mantra.

Others, he can't stand. Twenty-plus years of living in each other's pockets has given him plenty of time to gather the tastes… he knows each one, has night terrors that wake him with Sam's name on his lips, the bitter, vile taste of fear and despair sharp and stinging over his tongue.

The soft exhalation upon seeing Sam safe, wounded but safe, is usually tinged with the same coppery flavor of the crimson that leaks from his little brother's wounds, sharp and pungent, but buried under the buttery tang of relief, of mental praises of thanks to a deity he's not sure he believes in, but can't bring himself to doubt, not when his brother's safety is on the line. He'll beg and plead every time then, always surprised when the ash that's coating his mouth, choking him, doesn't spill with the words that tumble out of him.

That one time, the corpse of his brother still and cooling in the back seat of his baby, was the only time that his brother's name left his mouth without a flavor, his entire body as numb as his tongue, reminding him vaguely of morphine and Novocain, and when the protection of denial faded, the sharp and abhorrent taste of vomit replaced it, forced him to wrench open the door of the Impala, fall to his knees in the cold biting gravel.

Teasing Sam, that's a flavor he loves, adores. Cotton-candy sweet, with just enough salt to make it palatable, it's the flavor of childhood and cocky grins buried under shaggy hair, hazel eyes peeking up in annoyance and amusement.

When Sam says his name, relief welling out of the cupid's-bow of his brother's lips, the taste is vaguely reminiscent of the coffeeshop in Ohio, where the waitress added pats of butter to the coffee, black and sugary, and the taste isn't horrible, but not something he seeks. It's flavored with despair at failing, relief at succeeding.

Sharp irritation, spilling burnt coffee and cold medicine over his tongue, is a taste that's revolting and nasty, but one that he endures, takes when it's needed, because Sam's always needed knocked down a peg or two. Dean will take the flavor, will swallow it with a choking gag, because it spares his brother the rancid milk and spoiled meat of shame and embarrassment later. It's always easier to take medicine from your family than from strangers.

And when Sam swallows him, bite by bite, lick by lick, suckling nibble by nibble, tugging his name out of Dean's mouth, the taste is home, peanut M&M's and jerky, of peanut butter and chocolate, of whiskey and coffee; of everything that marks home, everything that, to other people, would be pot roast and chocolate chip cookies. It's the flavor of success and triumph, but more importantly, it's the taste of love.

It's Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Back at the motel after a hunt is usually Sam's favorite time of day. With his brother riding high on endorphins, feeling no pain and more than a little randy, it bolsters his own emotions. A lot. But even more, is the fact that the sweat his brother had worked up has overpowered the soap he washed with, turning his scent 100% primal male again.

And if that sweat had a habit of pooling along his brother's spine, drying to a sweetly-salty film across the golden and freckled skin, well… no one could really blame a person for not being strong enough to resist. It's something that always turns Sam on. Fast. Dean may tease him and mock, but he shuts up in a hurry when he's manhandled into this position, all sprawled out on his belly, miles of gilded skin laid out like a personal buffet. One that he can lick and nip and taste his way across. Dean doesn't say much; whimpers like a broken thing, yes, but he doesn't say anything, letting Sam flatten his tongue along the hollow line of his spine, lapping reverently along the bony ridges, pressing a chaste kiss to each vertebra after it tastes one hundred percent Dean.

That same taste always lingers in the small nook behind his brother's ear, the one he latches his mouth onto after cleaning his way up, the salt and sweat a lingering taste on his tongue. It's a hot-spot for Dean, and the reaction is always the same. He's incredibly tense by the time Sam's breath blows over it, hot and sweet, and the first nip, tongue laving over it to soothe the sting away, lets a broken keen out of that plush mouth, frame shuddering against the sheets as he writhes. Sam will taste his way across the curve of the strong jaw, dark stubble rasping over his tongue, sparking brightly in a shower of _almond_ and _aftershave_ and the inherent taste of _Dean_.

A few minutes to cleanse Dean's mouth of the coffee and whiskey and candy, to return the basic sweet taste of his brother, and he resumes his cleaning, nipping more and long washes of his tongue less frequent, until he's nuzzling against the dark curls that frame the ultimate taste of Dean. Bitter and salty and smoky, a flavor enhanced by the broken chants of his name, and he smirks as he watches the color slowly return to lust-blown pupils.

The double flood of endorphins makes Dean lazy and sated and sleepy, and he doesn't protest any as Sam maneuvers him under the blankets, and into cool sheets. His eyes stay lingering for a moment longer as Sam finishes undressing, and slide shut in languid contentment as they curl together. He chuckles, but doesn't say anything as Sam mouths sleepily at the curve of his shoulder, the taste lulling him into sleep as surely as any pacifier.

Yeah, after a hunt is usually Sam's favorite time. Second only to this.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean knows how to tease Sam, to get him riled up and anxious as a buck during the rut, only to make him simmer and get all twisted up inside. He knows just how desperate Sam can get, and that can only mean one thing. He does this intentionally.

Sam loves the Impala. She's a great girl, even though she's older than both of them. And that age means she needs a little upkeep once in awhile. He understands this. But it doesn't make it any easier to suppress the groan of anticipation and dismay when Dean mentions he's working on the Impala today.

Because it's summer in South Dakota, which means Dean's going to start off in jeans slung low over narrow hips, and a tee-shirt that cuts across thick biceps, collar stretched enough to show the constellations of freckles sneaking off his shoulders and down his chest.

He'll lean over the metal of the classic, jeans pulling taut and displaying, teasing and tempting, the perfect ass hidden underneath. Sam knows that part isn't intentional. Once Dean gets metal in his hands, be it gun or car or wrench, his mind refocuses, and torturing Sam isn't a top priority anymore. But the longer he stays under the heat lamp they call a sun, the darker and wider the stripe along Dean's spine, the V along his chest and the triangles under his arms get. And the wetter Dean's shirt gets, the dryer Sam's mouth gets.

He's tried, in the past, to look away, to face another direction, but the noises that drift over invariably draw his attention back, until he has to shift in jeans that are suddenly too tight.

Oh, but how he itches to pin his brother down and lick him clean again.

If he's lucky, Bobby will holler out soon, calling Sam in for help inside.

If he's lucky, Bobby will forget they're out here, and Dean will wind up stripping off his shirt.

It's hot, after all, but not hot enough to compare to the way the smattering of freckles darken and glisten under the sheen of sweat and sun, and Sam's strong in a physical sense, but extremely weak when it comes to this.

And when Dean makes a curious mrr of noise, standing up and wiping his forehead with his forearm, leaving a smear of oil behind, the sight is enough to break the last of Sam's patience. The startled grunt of surprise as Sam slams him against the hot and black metal is almost instantly buried under the groan when Sam bucks impatiently into the hardness under him, rutting against the lean thigh that's wedged itself between his legs. It's not long before they're shuddering together, and the harsh gasps in his ear isn't enough to distract him from the pretty sight of darkness blooming across the front of Dean's jeans.

This? Dean all sexed out, pupils blown and chest heaving, still glistening under the sun… is Sam's favorite sight, bar none.


End file.
